Sympathy poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best sympathy poems ever written. Read all poems about sympathy.
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
Earth, Ocean, Air, belovèd brotherhood!
If our great Mother has imbued my soul
With aught of natural piety to feel
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine;
To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
I WALK through the long schoolroom questioning;
A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
The children learn to cipher and to sing,
To study reading-books and histories,
From my cradle up to he breathes last
Being a shadow against the sun,
A brightening star from the dusk,
The real glorious at dawn
$10 a gallon?
'Does that really matter now?
`You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
Name, my Laura, name the whirl-compelling
Bodies to unite in one blest whole--
Name, my Laura, name the wondrous magic
By which soul rejoins its kindred soul!
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;
And hark, again! the crowing cock,
I am a little pink Rose!
I bloomed to see
This beautiful world,
To enjoy the monsoon,
The day is done, the winter sun
Is setting in its sullen sky;
And drear the course that has been run,
And dim the hearts that slowly die.
Daily I listen to wonder and woe,
Nightly I hearken to knave or to ace,
Telling me stories of lava and snow,
Delicate fables of ribbon and lace,
When you see me sitting quietly,
Like a sack left on the shelf,
Don’t think I need your chattering.
My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;
BEHAVIOR--fresh, native, copious, each one for himself or herself,
Nature and the Soul expressed--America and freedom expressed--In it
the finest art,
In it pride, cleanliness, sympathy, to have their chance,
I SING the Body electric;
The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them;
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
I have walked through tougher Harlem where few strangers dare to go
And I've been in London City in the rain and in the snow
And I've worked in inner Melbourne in the searing summer heat
And believe me if I tell you I have earned the bread I eat.
door of grass
light always has its way in darkeness as light is born out of light.
light's shadow is light.
When sad and sombre,
I turn to you, Dark Daughter,
When pensive and grief-laden!
The Working Man and the Beggar saw each other every day. It was always around the cusp of the evening. The Beggar was always sitting at the edge of an alleyway. The Working Man always walked by the alleyway towards his home. Every day when the Working Man crossed the Beggar's sitting place, they would acknowledge each other. It could be anything. The slightest of nods or just a meeting of eyes. It was subtle and momentary, but it was there. The Beggar would notice the Working Man's tired eyes, slumped shoulders, sunken cheeks, and his wrinkled face. The Working Man would notice the rugged face of the Beggar, full of old and fresh cuts. And then the Working Man would continue on his path home.
The Working Man lived alone. His whole life he'd been just another guy. Another one amongst many whose existence didn't really matter. Every day he'd go to his workplace. He would do what work was assigned to him. He would eat his lunch alone. Get shouted upon by his seniors. He'd hear his colleagues snicker as it happened. They would make noise, talk amongst themselves, laugh about stuff while they'd work. It wasn't as if they bothered him. They couldn't care less about him. It was just, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't block the cacophony. He'd wait for the work hours to get over. Then he'd drag his frame out of his workplace and walk past the Beggar with his shoulders slumped.
The Beggar would wake up every day to stray dogs licking and sniffing him. He was sure that they did that to check whether he was dead so that they could feast on him. Then he would roam around, looking for food in the bins and drinking water from water points in public parks. The cops would then throw him out of one of the parks. Some would beat him to make them feel good about themselves. Then the Beggar would sit at some public places with his hand out. Most days, the hands would remain empty. But somedays, he'd receive enough coins to buy himself a loaf of bread. Almost every day, on his way back to his sleeping place, some frustrated upstarts of a local gang would pester him for money or just because they had nothing else to do. They weren't the police. So, the Beggar hit back against them. They gave him cuts and bruises. But he made sure that he left marks on them too. Done with his daily tiring albeit necessary for survival routine, he'd sit at his sleeping place as the Working Man would walk past him every day.
The two men wonder why do they acknowledge each other. Why do they glance at each other's way when they are just another part of the masses. They don't even remember when this started. Maybe one day as the Working Man was walking past the Beggar their eyes had met. It was all about chance. Maybe at that moment, they didn't sense hostility from each other as they do from everyone they encounter. Maybe they felt sympathy from each other for each other. One moment. It was one moment when the Working Man didn't feel isolated and didn't hear the noise. One moment when the Beggar didn't feel pain and hunger. Just a chance glance of sympathy and kindness and they had connected. It became the only comfort moment of their day. They knew that they probably would never do more than their subtle gestures. And in all honesty, they didn't want more. Maybe they were scared that it would be ruined and their one moment of tranquility would be gone. Whatever it was, they were content.
By Stanley Collymore
Get well Donald Trump- so
will somebody pass him
Life, you not with me seems as empty
As a super market shelf can be,
It's bad being lonely,
But pity's what kills me,
As a Man
Who is worthy for
From you I expected sympathy,
But you gave me something that is more than sympathy.
From you I expected love,
but you gave me something that is more than love.
In the nick of time, Sylvia's sympathy soars
Stealing the limelight and plying her trade
Within the context of romance roles
In the month of February Sylvia parades a persona well bred.
Bind boasts and bruises, breach bother
Motivate men and women of honour
Empathy and sympathy supply to your brother
At all costs, avoid the aridity and acidity of dishonor.
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